With Friends Like These
by Cosmo-Donatien
Summary: A three-part fic proposing the circumstances that Red came to meet and recruit Dembe, Luli & Grey. My Blacklist Secret Santa gift to Sfaari.


**WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE**

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Blacklist or any of the characters depicted in the show. I am making no money from this work of fanfiction.

* * *

**CHAPTER 1  
[Al Wagan, United Arab Emirates – October 2002]**

"Saif, my friend, the whole thing will go down without a hitch; you _know_ you have nothing to worry about with me, or with the people I work with."

"I've not had much luck with contractors of late," Saif Ghannam, Arabic arms dealer, confided.

"Well that's because you weren't using the right ones. My contractors are vetted personally by me, and I take on nobody but the best and most trustworthy. 'Raymond Reddington' is a name synonymous with discretion and quality of service; it's also _my_ name, so I find that I care if it gets dragged through the mud."

"Then we should toast to–" A commotion at the door stopped Saif from speaking and he whirled to face the entrance of the room as a beast of a man came barrelling through the door, dark skin glistening with perspiration.

"Sir," the dark-skinned young man began, fighting to catch his breath.

"What are you doing in here, Dembe?" Saif demanded. "Who gave you permission to come into this house?"

"I have an urgent message, from Ramji."

"It can wait," the arms dealer responded dismissively. The guard stepped forward and held out his hands, as though imploring Saif to listen to him. Red kept his face impassive, but his ears listened keenly; information was his trade, after all.

"But, Sir–"

"I said," Saif rounded on the young guard, "it will wait. Or is that _your_ decision to make?" Dembe shook his head and looked away, missing the warning signs Red was all too aware of. Saif's fist connected with the young man's jaw, putting him off balance as more blows rained down on him. Red observed Saif's attack on the guard with a mask of indifference; however he found the behaviour to be extremely distasteful, especially from a man who had preached manners and social niceties throughout their acquaintance. As soon as he was able, the younger man turned tail and fled the room as fast as his feet would carry him. "Dembe," Saif gestured to the door by way of introducing the object of his wrath, now well and truly out of the building Red had no doubt. "No brains."

Red found himself wanting to follow Dembe, to find out more about Saif's character outside of their negotiations and deals; inwardly he sighed, knowing he had yet to wrap up their meeting.

"So, what are we toasting to?" he prompted Saif, gesturing with his tumbler of whisky.

"To a smooth transaction and our renewed acquaintance," Saif announced; "it really has been too long."

"I will drink to that," Red enthused falsely, clinking his glass with Saif's before downing the amber liquid in one swallow, all the while thinking that 'too long' wasn't long enough. He placed the glass back on Saif's desk before checking his watch. "Now, I must be leaving. I'll have a contractor ready for you tomorrow; he will arrive here and you can go over the details of the job with him then. I will be available on my usual number."

"Stay," Saif implored, "have another drink! We have much to talk about."

"Much as I would love the pleasure of your company, I have another meeting to prepare for."

"If your business is booming then I won't stop you from leaving," Saif relented, holding his hand out for Red to shake. "Goodbye, my friend," he said to Red.

"_Ma'a as-salaama_, Saif," Red answered with a smile, accepting the handshake, before turning his back on Saif Ghannam for the last time, mentally adding his name to the growing list of criminals he had begun compiling nine years previously.

Once his jacket and fedora had been returned to him he exited Saif's mansion and headed for his vehicle. On his way out he spied Dembe being fussed over by one of the nervous-looking maids for his split eyebrow. He had never liked Saif; there had always seemed to be something sinister about him despite his gentlemanly act, and his little outburst had only confirmed Red's hunch. He watched as Dembe shook the maid off and trudged away toward the gatehouse. Red approached the maid and waved her over.

"Do you know him?"

"We all know Dembe," she replied timidly, "he has been here for several years. He came just after I started working here." He nodded his understanding; her eyes darted around the immediate grounds of the compound. "I really shouldn't be speaking with you. I have to go," she said hurriedly before she disappeared through the servants' entrance at the side of the mansion. Shaking his head, Red headed for his Jeep and soon caught up with Dembe on the outskirts of Saif's compound. He stood at the gate talking to another guard, both of them held AK47 rifles. Red wondered what Dembe was doing at the compound – he clearly didn't enjoy being there – and indeed _why_ he was there. He was clearly in no position of authority, as was made evident when the guard Dembe was speaking with barked something at him and spat at his feet before leaving. Dembe stood at the gate, facing the desert beyond the compound, his posture that of the downtrodden. He turned to see Red's car and immediately moved to open the gate; Red motioned for him to come over, disturbing him from opening the gate.

"What are you doing here?" Red asked, figuring he may as well be forthright with the younger man. Dembe shrugged and nodded back the way they had both come from Saif's mansion. "I know that, but what are you doing here?" Dembe said nothing. "Are you being paid?" Again, no response. Red regarded Dembe thoughtfully. "Can you drive?" A nod. "That is most fortunate. You see, I find myself in need of a driver, and I can pay you well enough." Dembe kept his silence but shook his head so slightly that anybody else might not have caught the movement; understanding dawned on Red then. "I can also offer you protection... from any individual or organisation." Dembe looked uncertain and Red sensed he was wearing him down. "You can understand me well enough, Dembe. You speak English as your first language?"

"Yes."

"For that I am thankful. I am useless with any of the Chadian languages; I can't even muddle my way through it." Red nodded to the passenger door. "Hop in." Dembe remained rooted to the spot by the driver's side window. Red sighed and opened his door, exiting the vehicle to stand almost toe to toe with the mountain of a man holding the AK47. "I am offering you a way out of here, Dembe. You do understand that this opportunity may never come again from me or from anybody else? You will never be out from under these people, and you will never be seen as anything other than disposable unless you accept now." Throughout his speech Red observed as Dembe's eyes turned hard before softening at the realisation that the total stranger knew exactly what was going on and honestly seemed to want to help him. "Now," Red began brightly, stepping away from him and gesturing to the car, "shall we try this again?" Without a word Dembe skirted around the car and got into the passenger seat. Red fired up the engine in time for another of the AK47 wielding men turned the corner. "Get into the back," Red said, watching coolly as the man with the AK began approaching the gate more quickly, looking around for Dembe who had managed to manoeuvre himself between the seats and into the back of the jeep, huddling behind the seats as the other guard approached.

"Can I help you, Sir?" the guard asked, looking at Red with a mixture of suspicion and false interest.

"Yeah, you can open this damn gate," Red returned, affecting an agitated air. "I've been sitting here for a quarter of an hour already; I have places to be, and this isn't exactly the most central location."

"Of course, Sir," the guard ground out, grudgingly turning away from the jeep to open the gate while mumbling loudly that Dembe should have been there to open it. Behind him, Red heard a click as the safety was flipped back on the rifle. As the gate opened he inched the car toward it before opening the throttle and applying more pressure on the accelerator once it had clanged open completely, leaving the compound with a great cloud of dust from the road trailing in the jeep's wake.

After a while, Dembe sat back in the front seat, though he maintained his silence. "Leave it," Red commanded sharply as the younger man reached back for the rifle. "You'll not need that now," he explained in a softer tone.

"Why are you helping me?" Dembe asked, confusion evident in his heavily-accented voice.

"You have intelligence in you," Red stated, "and that shouldn't be left untapped. That, and I don't much care for Saif, so you'll be of great use for what I have planned for his little... operation." Red pointedly ignored his questioning look, keeping his eyes on the road. "How did you come to be here, Dembe?"

"Trade," was the simple answer, but Red understood the meaning; Dembe had been sold into Saif's service, a victim of human trafficking.

"Where are you from originally?"

"Sudan."

"South?" Dembe nodded. "You were taken during the conflict," Red stated grimly. The younger man nodded again, and Red heard him swallow audibly as he turned to look at the landscape beyond the passenger window – an expanse of desert. He had no doubt it would have been a traumatic experience, especially as Dembe would have been that much younger. "Who took you?" Red asked, unsure as to why he was continuing his line of questioning, why the silent young man suddenly inspired a protectiveness in him... a will to mould him into something new, useful and upstanding. Something about him was interesting to Red, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. It perplexed him.

"I do not know the name," Dembe stated after a moment spent recalling his capture.

"That is a shame," Red responded simply, allowing the conversation to end.

* * *

The unlikely pair arrived back in Abu Dhabi and Red pulled the dust-caked jeep into the parking lot of the Ritz Carlton. When it came time to enter the hotel Dembe's body language screamed his reluctance and anxiety; Red fought to keep himself from rolling his eyes as he shepherded him through the doors and main lobby to the elevators. They soon arrived in the suite, Red immediately moving into the room and tossing his hat and jacket over the loveseat; Dembe stood awkwardly by the door. Red chose to ignore his discomfort when he next addressed him.

"I will have a tailor sent up; you need a few good suits. This," he gestured to the worn fatigues Dembe wore, "_ensemble_ will never do."

* * *

Red observed the tailor at work, a glass of scotch in hand. Dembe had declined the offer of a drink, still not quite trusting anything. He watched as the tailor presented the younger man with a series of material swatches to choose from before also showing them to Red for confirmation of the choices made. At Red's request the tailor had also brought an off-the-peg suit for Dembe to wear immediately. Once the tailor left, forgotten tape measure still hanging around his neck, Red asked Dembe to change into the suit. It was at this point, as Dembe shrugged out of his worn clothes and began to pull the black shirt on, that Red noticed a mark on his right shoulder; it was evidently not new, but the unmistakeable brand scar was still raised, and Red cast his mind back through his many acquaintances, knowing he had seen that symbol before.


End file.
